


part ii: feeling moody (dark and heavy)

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Android Racism, Angst and Porn, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Bad Decisions, Bisexual Hank Anderson, Blow Jobs, Come as Lube, Drunk Sex, Finger Sucking, Hangover, M/M, Misdirected anger, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Man, One-Sided Relationship, Post-Canon, Relapsing, Sexual Fantasy, Tags Are Hard, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 14:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15731124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: The man beneath him stops being some prostitute, a common hooker, and starts being Connor—they always do, this many drinks in, with this much of Hank inside—and neither of them have the agency to care.(His fingers rake through these muddy words, trying to pull them back, to yank himself out from the mire, but Hank has dug his grave already, and now it’s just a matter of rotting there. He’s slipping.He needs to stop. He can’t.)





	part ii: feeling moody (dark and heavy)

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy it's another one. i've never written m/m before and also i'm a virgin so all of my knowledge comes from other fics and shitty porn, so i could be WAY off but it's 04:11 and i need sleep so im not going back to check at this point
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: explicit sex, probably dubcon too because both parties are wasted as hell, lots and lots of vulgar language, alcohol abuse/withdrawal, and ableist bullshit because Hank is a mess
> 
> CTRL+F "the sun is high" to skip the sex and get right to the angst instead

Hank’s fucking _wasted_ like he hasn’t been in almost a year, maybe more. Colors bleed together in his vision, every sensation amplified over and over and over until all he knows is an incomprehensible riot of noise and light and heat—he thinks his drink is laced with something but he doesn’t care because the drug dribbles right down to his groin, filling him with a desperate, coiling want that overwhelms all else.

 

The man in his lap is built skinny like a runner, with a narrow face and deep black eyes left rimmed and hazy by the cocktail of sex and alcohol and mystery-cut pot flooding his system. Hank tangles his fingers in the boy’s curly brown hair, tracing the blurry edge of his clean-shaven jawline with rough hands before yanking him in for a kiss. Their mouths meet, hot and sloppy, tongues slipping together to explore between their teeth, and the cheap motel bed creaks beneath them as they tangle together.

 

This kid kisses like a slut, no shame to be found as he sucks the breath from Hank’s throat, captures his tongue. It makes sense, because his body is speckled with sequins, a sheen of glittery sweat and money (that Hank only sort of remembers pulling from the ATM) fresh in his dropping waistband. His lips are bruising, relentless: they are two skulls smacking together, hips rolling, fingers clutching—no tenderness, no romance—only need, hot and writhing, burning a hole in the pit of Hank’s belly.

 

A deft, knobbly hand finds its way to Hank’s half-mast cock, slipped messily out of the boxers stretched between his thighs, and gives a brisk stroke, almost a yank. Hank gasps at the unexpected contact, closing his jaws on the younger man’s lip to stifle the undignified mewl that spills past his teeth. His heart is pounding like a war drum in his ears, pulse racing, lungs already heaving in anticipation.

 

The hooker grins, smug and heady, before going in for another savage kiss. He hums into Hank’s mouth, “Like this?” And wraps his fingers fully around Hank’s throbbing girth, using the other hand to brace himself against the older man’s shoulders while he explores between his legs with practiced fingers. Hank sighs his approval, drawing in a shaky breath in the struggle to control himself, make it last, but there is a deep ache in him, from the root of his dick to the top of his chest: desperate, wanting.

 

The younger man seems to sense Hank’s jittery need, and takes flagrant advantage of it. He draws his nimble fingers in reverent strokes over Hank, tracing his veins, dragging his nails ever so lightly over his head. He pumps slowly at first, with little teasing squeezes that make Hank growl aloud, tugging at the torturous knot of desire in his belly. His hands move agonizingly slow, gripping Hank’s shoulder, stroking his dick with fleeting fairy touches just to drive him fucking crazy, bucking brazenly up into the touch and making the bed frame shake.

 

“Mouth,” he orders, thinks about two fingers stained with something—anything—pressed against a sleek pink tongue, warmed silicone and peacock blush. Analyzing. He shudders against the headboard, relishing the image. (What he wouldn’t give for this to be Connor—)

 

The boy obliges eagerly, obliviously, reaching down to massage his own hard-on before shuffling back. He preps with deliberate slowness, tracing the whorls of Hank’s coarse grey happy trail over the soft pouch of his gut, suckling little marking kisses all the way down. Hank whimpers in response, slinging his arms around the younger man’s neck and clawing at his hair.

 

(He needs _more_ , needs something to wrap him up and pinch the throbbing heat out of him until he’s empty and blissful and _clean_.)

 

“Yessir,” the boy laughs, bracing himself to take Hank into his mouth, eager until Hank can feel his head pressed against the back of his partner’s throat. His throat tightens, choking on the messy spurt of pre that spills over his tongue, but he does not withdraw.

 

(The kid definitely knows what the fuck he’s doing, that’s for sure, been at it long enough to have learned to swallow his gag reflex.)

 

Hank moans like a schoolgirl against the other man’s shoulder, bowing his head into the sweaty crook of his neck without the coherency to feel embarrassed. He nips at the sensitive skin there, drags his tongue all the way up to bite at his earlobe, drawing a groan from the younger man—and the vibration, low and crooning and quick around Hank’s cock is enough to make him shiver all over again, pressure building up desperate and molten inside him.

 

Hank shudders with hot, knotting pleasure as the hooker shoves his tongue against his drooling slit. He traces each pulsing vein with reverence, moving back to squeeze Hank’s balls before closing his teeth and dragging them down over the shaft.

 

His tongue is hot, wet bliss swirling around Hank, swiping along his underside and teasing his swollen, desperate head—all practiced, all perfect, punctuated by lewd little noises that slip from them both. Hank curls his fingers like claws into the creamy skin of his partner’s back, pressing his knuckles hard into the rippling slimness of his shoulders—imagines that the tendons tensing beneath his grip are braided polyester neoligaments instead of gristly sinew, twined flesh. He bucks his hips up into the boy’s mouth, eager for more friction as his cock strains against the back of the man’s throat.

 

“M’ready,” the man pulls back, slurs around Hank’s girth, peering coyly up through his thick lashes. His dextrous tongue darts out to slip over the head, teasing Hank with delicate laps and half-mocking kisses. He’s the perfect twink with a lilting voice and pliable mien, but he’s not _right_. Too thin, with floral sleeves inked over both arms, and he’s too raunchy, too casual.

 

(It’s exactly what Hank needs.)

 

Hank growls his assent, cock twitching between their bodies as the boy rises, pulling himself off a few more strokes. He presses their chests together, already heaving, and slips Hank yet another sloppy kiss before crawling up into his lap once again. They don’t have lube, but they more than make due—the younger man takes Hank’s hands up to his face, suckling on his fingers till they’re slick with his own snowblown pre, diluted by hot, watery saliva.

 

Hank squeezes the hooker twink’s pert little ass once before finding his way to the boy’s entrance—it’s hot and tight and waiting to be filled, hungry. He hasn’t the patience to be gentle, shoving his first finger inside up to the knuckle and eliciting a ragged cry from his partner, who rocks hard onto the invasion, arching needily into the sensation despite its suddenness. He thrusts at a leisurely pace, taking his time to explore the slickness of the younger man’s hole, teasing him. He’s so needy already—panting and whining like a dog. Hank takes his time, and it’s payback for being so slow on the uptake. He takes the time to lean over and make out some more before inserting his second finger.

 

The boy’s cock, pinned between their stomach, quivers almost violently, slobbering hot, sticky pre onto both of their bodies. “Good boy,” Hank growls, curling his fingers to scrape against his partner’s inner walls. He whimpers and gasps the entire way through that second digit, close and fluttering around Hank’s fingers as he pushes his third inside. It’s enough to make the boy howl, digging his blunt nails hard into Hank’s shoulders as he clings for dear life, bucking his hips and moaning for more.

 

“Get in,” he manages to gasp, “Hah—I need you inside—”

 

Hank doesn’t waste a minute. He’s shaky, straining, just about ready to burst—and his head is running through molasses, but that doesn’t stop him from hoisting his partner, lining up and slipping inside that ring of muscle with a sharp intake of breath. He shudders from head to toe as his partner’s ass clenches and flutters around his cock, worked looser by his fingers but still tense and tight and more than ready to be fucked.

 

“Big—” the hooker chokes, shivering. “So thick—mm—”

 

They start slow, hips rolling and legs shaking as the boy rides in Hank’s lap, pushing himself up and down along the older man’s shaft, loosening up to take more and more of him with every trembling thrust. His slim chest glistens with sweat and so does Hank’s thicker one, and they slide over one another with steamy breaths drawing chills as they evaporate.

 

It’s hot inside, enveloping Hank’s cock in slick, squeezing muscle that wraps around him and holds—a constant pressure, relaxing and contracting over the head of his dick, pulling in more. Every spasm is another crashing swell of frothy surf, each breaker coming closer and closer to yanking his feet out from beneath him. The pleasure assaults him like a riptide, uncompromising, and Hank almost comes right then and there.

 

Hank huffs through clenched teeth, bucking his hips up into the young man on his lap, skin slapping on skin and drawing a half-pained moan from the boy, but the aftershock of pleasure from the act is all they need to pick up the pace once again.

 

“A-almost,” the younger man murmurs, guttural and hoarse. “So close—”

 

It’s a monumental effort to stop fucking long enough to change positions, but Hank takes the initiative to flip them over so that he’s on top. Better this way. The hooker boy hikes his slender legs up around Hank’s waist, pulling himself closer, deeper, curling his thin piano fingers like claws into the motel bedsheets. He moves more quickly this time, thrusts his hips back and forth at a relentless pace that he’ll absolutely fucking regret in the morning, bouncing the hooker higher and higher up along the length of his cock, bruising his thighs with the force of his grip.

 

The younger man mewls, arching his back and demanding, breathlessly, “More!” In response Hank slows his lunges to an agonizingly sluggish pace, watching his partner squirm and buck against his dick, desperate for more. The hooker paws at his chest with one hand, pleading, using the other to jerk himself off some as he twists his hips in a vain attempt to slide the older man deeper inside him.

 

Fuck, it feels so good to be needed.

 

They go on like this for what feels like eternity, and there’s nothing else. Just the dusky shadows seeping into the unlit bedroom, the heavy tang of booze and the ropey musk of pot overlaid with sweat and salted cream. Hank just sees his partner’s face, eyes rolled back and lips parted, a blurry plane of freckles and short chestnut hair knotted into sweat-stiff curls.

 

“Yes,” he mewls, helpless, vacant. “Oh—God yes—there—”

 

(Bingo. Hank wonders whether Connor would cry for rA9.)

 

“Fuck,” is his eloquent response. He speeds up, angling his hips up to better access his partner’s sensitive prostate, sliding against it and eliciting broken moans, uneven, gulping breaths. He can barely see through the drunken haze that’s draped over his body like weighted tulle, frosting his vision and blanketing his brain with lust.

 

His heart rabbits, head spinning with every desperate slam of his cock into the inflamed entrance of his partner, the ring of muscle clenched tight and needy around him. The man beneath him stops being some prostitute, a common hooker, and starts being Connor—they always do, this many drinks in, with this much of Hank inside—and neither of them have the agency to care.

 

 _Connor_ begs and pants beneath him, freckled chest heaving. (Cyberlife sure thought of everything, didn’t they?) _Connor_ rakes his nails over Hank’s back, pulling, taking this rough fucking like a goddamn champ, fluttering hot and wet and hungry like a virgin even though he knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, because of course he does. _Connor_ stiffens, bowstring muscles pulled taut enough to snap, and fucking _sobs_ when the pressure mounts and Hank comes inside of him, his own cock spurting up in pearly strings across his belly and his chest as they climax in staggered tandem.

 

The relief of that release makes Hank see stars, and he shudders from head to toe, extremities curling. This tight, young ass is going to be limping tomorrow, filled up fat with his seed, almost like a mark of ownership. He should’ve brought handcuffs.

 

“Ah,” says Not-Connor, the hooker, and his voice gives him away—a soft thick tone from the back of his throat made scratchy by the work it’s done tonight. “S’good,” he pants, unresistant as Hank rolls off beside him. Post-fuck exhaustion crashes into him like a hammer between the eyes, and Hank is starkly reminded that he is not as young as he used to be. Shit.

 

“Yeah,” Hank agrees, before promptly passing the fuck out.

 

The sun is high and already peeking its ugly fucking mug through the clouds and the moth-eaten curtains by the time Hank wakes up, alone and still naked in the shitty motel bed. His clothes are unfolded, but no longer on the floor, instead gathered in a rumpled pile atop the nightstand to his left. His head pounds in time with his heart, each beat another battering ram to his skull, the watery threads of sunlight seeping through the window like shards of white-hot glass in his eyes.

 

Hangovers aren’t new to Hank—this damn sure isn’t his first rodeo—but no matter how many times he has to put up with this shit, there’s always a part of him that’s far too accustomed to not waking up like a fucking zombie after any given binge.

 

(His body should really know better, but the universe isn’t that kind. And Hank isn’t sure he wants it to be, really.)

 

The room spins when he tries to get up, and Hank swears colorfully to no one in particular. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes as though that might fend off the splitting headache that’s so ever so fucking kindly assaulting him first thing in the fucking morning—or afternoon, what the fuck ever. It does something in the ballpark of jack shit to help him.

 

Baby steps—those are the best way to deal with bullshit like this. Getting to his feet takes herculean effort, and even then Hank finds his balance is shot to hell and back, so he needs to lean heavily against the creaky bed frame and the peeling wall on his agonizing journey to the washroom. He stumbles, vision failing him as the room spins, yanking at his innards, but with time—probably takes ten fucking years at his pace—Hank finally stumbles into the bathroom and sits himself down on the closed lid of the toilet.

 

He spends what must be a solid five or ten minutes just sitting there with his pounding head cradled in his hands, but eventually the call of nature is too much. Hank manages to stand up and lift the lid without incident, then take his piss and turn to the sink. The mirror is dingy and smudged with what he damn well hopes are handprints, but it catches his reflection well enough.

 

His hair is tangled and greasy from sweat, plastered halfway towards one side of his head from sleeping on his side for at least part of the night. Lack of sleep and hard drink have worked together to carve out deep purple bags beneath his eyes, and his face looks pale save the feverish flush in his cheeks and nose. This one looks like it might last a while.

 

“Fuck you,” he says to the mirror—slurs, really, because his fucking fine motor skills are still taking their sweet damn time rebooting on him, and he might still be a little drunk. He turns around and heaves the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Just a little drunk. Bile burns in the back of his throat, and his tongue is thick and clumsy. The only blessing he can find to cling onto is that he ate fuck-all last night, so there’s really not all that much to throw up beyond sour booze and stomach sauce.

 

Once his belly decides it’s empty and his gag reflex has had enough, Hank finds the energy to spin around again and lap some metallic-tasting water from the tap to clear his mouth out a little.

 

(It doesn’t really help.)

 

He stands there in a daze for what seems like a long time before finally looking to the shower. It’s surprisingly well kept considering the overall seediness of the motel he’s landed himself at, dull and slightly grimy, but well within usable condition. Without taking the effort to gather up his clothes beforehand, Hank turns the water on. The showerhead sputters and shakes before finally spitting cold water into the shallow tub, and Hank doesn’t bother waiting for it to get any more than lukewarm before ducking beneath the spray.

 

It’s a shit excuse for a shower, as far as Hank’s concerned. The water pressure is inconsistent, shit won’t get hot enough to make him really feel clean, and the mini bottles of hotel soap smell like a ninety-nine cent fucking car freshener. The only thing that can even loosely be considered an upside is that the cold water makes him feel halfway awake, which is a start, but it’s not something Hank plans on writing home about, that’s for sure.

 

When he’s finished he wrenches a slightly musty towel from its spot folded on the toilet tank, because the rack screwed into the wall is only halfway there and dangling vertically against the shower curtain. Because of fucking course.

 

Once dry, Hank staggers his way back into the main bedroom. He approximates a beeline to the nightstand where yesterday’s clothes lie, fumbling with the garments until he finds what he needs. He steps into his boxers and then his trousers, and only finds the need to steady himself against the bed once before those are done. His shirt is wrinkled as fuck and alarmingly stiff, reeking of last night’s booze and a faint musk of dope, but it’s the only one he has at present, so he yanks it over his head and struggles to stuff all of his limbs through the appropriate holes.

 

What remains is his jacket, scuffed to some extent, but ultimately no worse for wear. As Hank shrugs it on, something drops from the pocket, fluttering languidly to the floor. His knees protest—fucking _riot_ —when he crouches to retrieve it, and he hisses through his teeth as he peels the slip of paper up from the musty carpet floor.

 

It’s a business card of some kind—of the Eden Club knockoff variety, this time with one hundred percent organic, genuine human prostitutes. _Sex with soul_ —ha. One the front side it declares the company name, address and phone number in fluorescent purple font, but there’s more on the back. _Had a good time last night_ , it says in looping, slightly girly handwriting. _Discount for you if you ever wanna bone again. Ask for Robbie. XXX._

 

(There’s a little fucking drawing of a _heart_.)

 

Hank almost wants to vomit all over again, but it isn’t worth the time and effort. All he really needs is to get the fuck home so that he can choke down the highest dose of ibuprofen his body can manage without him getting a perforated ulcer and dying horribly. And a fucking power nap, four hours minimum.

 

He pockets the card and trades it for his phone. The display is painful to his addled brain, which has totally given the fuck up on processing things like light and sound and life in general, and he needs to squint awkwardly through his lashes for an uncomfortably long time before he manages to turn the goddamn brightness down. Shame he didn’t think to pack shades last night. His home screen informs him that it’s almost one in the afternoon—fuck. On the bright side, it’s Saturday, which is good because he at least doesn’t need to bullshit his way through anything resembling work today.

 

The FBI’s working through this whole “check-in” fuckery at the precinct like the condescending snails they are, so it’ll probably take longer than the week for Connor and Hank—the only android-human partnership in the entire department, and consequent object of interest for interspecies political bullshit—to get put back on the job. So Hank doesn’t _technically_ have anywhere to be, probably won’t for a good fucking while—but Connor has no goddamn clue where he is and has probably blown a fuse or short circuited or something by now.

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to soothe his throbbing headache, Hank swipes to his text messaging app—only to find that he has no new messages. The most recent text from 313-248-317 is several days old, showcasing video straight from Connor’s memory banks of a really fat fucking dog tethered outside a convenience store. Shit’s almost five straight minutes of Connor, from a first-person perspective, crooning out adoring baby-talk at the fuzzball pomeranian mix, which seems to enjoy his offered pats.

 

(Hank’s ashamed to say that he was not drunk at the time of replying because his response is an incoherent keysmash followed by “aa _fuckk con thats v cute. but sumo will b SO jelly if u dont et ur ass back home. gotta prep 4 movie nite this wknd_.” Completely fucking sober, he was.)

 

The point is that it’s unusual for Connor not to have blown up his phone by now, asking after his health or whether he needs a ride home or any of the other housewife-y shit he loves to do so much. Hank’s first instinct is to be concerned, but then it occurs to him that he’s been giving the kid the cold fucking shoulder and he probably thinks it’d be bothersome to call.

 

Guilt settles a pit in the belly of his heart, low, heavy on his ribs. Fuck. He sets his jaw and does his best to scrape up what little dignity he hasn’t yet coughed up alongside the bile and the booze. It comes up to very damn little, and that meager decency is fragile, too. The unsteady walk down the motel corridor is one of shame not because of the fucking Hank dished out last night but the reason behind it, and his footsteps come dragging and slow.

 

Reception ignores him and the dingy lobby is empty, thank God, because Hank is so not in the fucking mood to interact with another living person at this time. (He has checked the fuck out, thank you very much.)

 

He’s in the kind of neighborhood that reeks of homicide, as far as his tingly detective sense is concerned. Or that could be the nausea—it really doesn’t fucking matter, though, because this part of town is shit. The buildings are all vaguely stained and peeling like rotten produce, smell like it too, and the folks who live here are just as raggedy as their homes. Lots of hard eyes and seedy bars, seedier motels—sex clubs, too, cheap gutted remnants of the rapidly-failing Eden brand.

 

The best course of action at this point is to hail an autocab and get the fuck out of here, and that’s exactly what Hank plans to do. He fumbles with his cellphone and takes something like ten fucking minutes to remember the number for his preferred taxi service—which is already in his contacts if he’d just bother to look, but his head is pounding and he’s a long fucking way from a hundred percent, so he cuts himself that little bit of slack and refrains from stumbling into traffic for the frustration of it all.

 

Hank has never been a huge fan of autonomous vehicles, to be completely honest, but the good thing about the fucking things is that he always has a designated driver—or lack thereof. Nobody’s there to send him judgy looks in the rearview mirror when he spews on their upholstery, at least, or to ask awkward invasive questions to fill the silence while he clambers into the backseat.

 

He punches his address into the little keypad and pays remotely with his phone, then presses his head against the cool tinted glass of the window and shuts his eyes. Every little bump in the road sends a jarring pain spiking down his goddamn neck, but Hank can’t bring himself to peel his fever-hot cheek away from the glass until the taxi comes to a stop in front of his house.

 

“Fuck—” Hank very nearly eats concrete when he fucking _misses the curb_ on the way out of the autocab. His dizziness has subsided, but not by much, and the abrupt lurch of Hank’s body when he stumbles over the sidewalk is more than enough to put it solidly back into the realm of Really Fucking Miserable.

 

He rakes his eyes over the driveway, looking for a point to focus on while he regains his balance. Hank settles on his haphazard parking job, crooked and probably executed while drunk—the characters on his license plate bleed together and swim in his vision, and it’s all he can do not to hurl again in the front yard.

 

Bile burns in the back of his throat and Hank swallows hard over the rolling nausea in his gut. It catches like a dry pill on the lump in his throat. His hands are still shaky when he fishes out his keyring, and it takes a ridiculously long fucking time for him to sort through his sparse keychains and pick out his house key. He jiggles the thing into the lock and shoves the door open without announcing himself, kicking it shut behind him.

 

Even as the door slams, Connor does not call out to greet Hank. His stomach knots, and he cranes his neck to peer over the sofa in the living room, see if Connor is, for whatever reason, still in stasis. Maybe androids can feel lazy, sleep in—or not. Just Hank’s luck, Connor’s not still resting: not even in the fucking house, it seems.

 

When circling back to the kitchen, Hank spots the post-it note stuck to the refrigerator, stark lime green and obvious on the empty surface. He growls under his breath and stalks over, pulling the note from its place adhered just above the handle.

 

 _I’m going out and I don’t intend to take too long, but in the event that you arrive home before I do: I am fine,_ is penned out in flawless font like a printed book, undoubtedly written by Connor. Huh. He’s going the fuck out? That’s new. Good. Fine.

 

(Let him make some actual fucking friends instead of bunking forever with some washed-up old man. That’s what he should do. He should really, really do that and Hank knows it because the thought of the kid is making him irrationally upset. It’s a bad arrangement.)

 

The house has been much cleaner since Connor started rooming full-time, and this afternoon is no different. Whatever inevitable snack wrappers and leftover drinks from last night have been discarded, and Sumo’s dishes are full—and speaking of the goofy fucking lug, Sumo bounces out of Hank’s bedroom with his tail wiggling in helicopter circles so violent that he looks like he might just take off, _whumph_ ing through his nose and dancing excited circles around his human.

 

Hank greets the dog with a gruff “good boy” and obligatory pats, idly stroking the animal’s fuzzy head as he shrugs his jacket off and makes for his bedroom on autopilot. He strips out of his gross clothes from last night and seeks something more comfortable in the form of a tee and boxers, then plugs in his phone on the nightstand.

 

He detours to the bathroom to retrieve the bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, then shuffles back the kitchen for a beer. Christ knows he shouldn’t, not with the hangover he’s nursing, but he fucking needs it.

 

(Getting drunker can never hurt, not any more than staying sober.)

 

Connor won’t be happy. He’s been trying to limit Hank’s drinking—gives him not-choices like a child. Twelve pack of the low-alcohol for the week, or six of the stronger stuff? Hank doesn’t care. Stopping cold turkey would make him ill, but this is almost worse.

 

Blood pressure up. Are the shakes worse? Running a fever? Connor tries to sub in water and soda and bullshit like that, just to give him something to sip at like that shit’s actually gonna help. It’s better than going to AA meetings, but it’s fucking degrading as all hell to be treated like he’s a goddamn mental patient who needs to sit in a feelings circle and remember med time every day.

 

Which brings him to this fucking point in his life: on the floor in his living room, drinking away his dumbfuck fantasies about a condescending prick of a robot because he has nothing better to do and no other goddamn way to cope. Fun times, Hank thinks.

 

Knock the pills back, squeeze the sweaty neck of the bottle, feel that condensation run in threads down his fingers. Hank shuts his eyes. Rinse. Repeat. He focuses—not really—on the weight of the air in the empty house, the grey sky peeking through the windows. The pale sun seems like it would make things feel lighter, airy and hazy and thin, but Hank feels heavy. So fucking heavy.

 

It’s remorse, maybe, but he doesn’t like it. His gut says he shouldn’t’ve pushed his only friend away, but Hank needs _someone_ to be mad at, and Connor’s willing to take it. Nobody loses. Probably shouldn’t’ve fucked the hooker that looks like him, though—not without a condom, but they were both drunk shitheads with no mind for protection. No mind for each other, even.

 

(Certainly no mind for Connor.)

 

At least one thing is certain: exhaustion, draped over him like a tangible thing, shunting all of his meager brainpower into staying awake, aware, but his innards are all tugged towards the ground and Hank wants to crawl into himself. His thoughts grind to a long-drawn halt, throwing up electric sparks that bounce around inside his head and sear burr holes into his skull—there’s guilt among them, pirouetting with all the fucking sick and sad and misery, leaking out without relieving any pressure at all.

 

Connor would know if he was here—fuck—he’d rattle off about intracranial pressure, cerebrospinal fluid and hypertensive hemorrhaging. Wouldn’t get the _feeling_ of it, the budding tightness in his skull borne of sleep deprivation and stress and all that shit because he never does, never fucking gets it—just floats above it all like the asshole he is.

 

(Hank could teach him about pressure, about _release_ —)

 

Thinking shit like that just makes him angry. How pathetic is he, really? Fucking perverted old man—kid’s a gorgeous prick but Hank is old enough to be his goddamn grandfather. Hank hates him. Hates that he’s so fucking— _good_ . Happy. All smiley and vigorous like the world isn’t fucking shit. Like—he takes another swig of his beer, empties it. Like he isn’t made to be cruel, to lie, to _kill_ —whatever it takes to get what he wants. It doesn’t matter what Hank wants. Never fucking did.

 

Motherfucker thinks he’s better than Hank. Pities him with big ridiculous doe eyes because some prick at Cyberlife had to design him like _that_ . It’s all designed, manufactured— _Connor_ is, and he doesn’t care about any-fucking-thing but himself. Probably knows exactly the kind of shit he does to Hank with his dry jokes and winks with implications that go (or appear to) right the fuck over his head. It’s all an experiment, stretching social protocols, seeing how far he can push the bounds of their “friendship.” Self-learning motherfucking AI, folks, pulling strings with his stupid goddamn supercomputer brain. Hank needs another drink.

 

It’s easier to just take the pack out and let it grow warm on the floor beside him than to keep making trips to the fridge. It’s easier not to think about it. Beers run out, but his good friend, Mr. Black Lamb, waltzes over to help him forget, stinging his throat on the way down, filling up his belly like acid slag.

 

Some people hate the lack of control that comes with getting shitfaced. Hank, respectfully, thinks that they can go fuck themselves with a cactus. Drifting through life brainless and barely conscious is orders of magnitude better than being sober and acutely aware of how fucking miserable he is at every waking hour. No nightmares when he’s drunk, either—no fantasies, no dreams—at least not that he’s got any chance of remembering. Yet another perk of drinking himself into a coma.

 

His eyelids get heavy, despite the fact that he hasn’t chugged enough this afternoon to black out. He barely slept last night, and unconsciousness isn’t the same as real rest, though. Just a fucking power nap, that’s all Hank wants.

 

(He’ll just snooze for a little while.)

 

In the dream, Connor loves him. _Loves_ him for real, not—whatever this is between them, with all the faux domesticity and gratuitous pussyfooting.

 

In the dream, Hank is all warm curves and heated skin pressed flush to the heaving slope of Connor’s chest. They they hold each other tight in the dark, sheets splayed out in tangled knots at their feet. The feeling thrums in his core, a constant hum of _love love love love love_ that is deep and primal and all-consuming, suffusing their bodies with warmth.

 

They just lie there, loving, and Connor cards his fingers through Hank’s silvered hair, so soft, so warm—he paints with his fingertips over the other man’s scalp, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the coarse length of his hair. Hank hums in response, his own arm draped loosely over Connor’s cool neck, nails tickling shallow patterns into the soft gap between his shoulder blades.

 

Slowly, the two of them shift, rolling so that Connor can fold his long legs on either side of Hank’s hips and straddle him, leaning down to pepper his neck with fervent little kisses—each like a droplet of ice-water that makes the other man squirm and sigh at contact. There is something so right about the soft curve of Hank’s neck waiting beneath Connor’s mouth, the way he coils up in anticipation of the bite that Connor teases but never gives.

 

Hank’s felt lust before, spent his share of hours rutting into a mattress behind closed doors, smothered by the burning want that waits in his belly, alone and unsatisfied—but this heat is different. It bleeds through them both, slow and laguid and weighty like a blanket of permeating warmth, not oppressive but comforting. There is no expectation, no pain of hunger, no need to do anything other than be, together, and nothing more—

 

“Hank!”

 

He peels his eyelids open very fucking slowly—they’re gritty with sleep and his lashes stick uncomfortably together. “Th’fuck?” Hank manages to slur, struggling to focus his gaze without being fully awake. He understands that he’s on the floor, propped up against the foot of the sofa, that he got here by being sleep deprived as fuck and drinking himself stupid, but his vision is fuzzy and clouded with little floating specks of sand, unable to fix or focus on what he’s looking at.

 

The hazy plane of somebody’s face floats not far away, watercolor smears of pale cream and brown that indicate a strong jaw, square chin, short hair. There’s a pinkish splatter towards the lower half that must be the person’s mouth, and it looks to be bent in a frown.

 

“Hank,” the voice repeats, coming from the face. “Let’s get you up.” It sounds like some kid smoked a pack or ten the day before his voice broke, stupid fucker—why’s he in Hank’s house? Did he finally get a call boy in here? Connor’s not gonna be happy, even if his reaction is fucking funny as hell—

 

“Connor?” He asks, dumbly, and scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes in a vain attempt to clear his vision. It helps, not as much as he’d hoped it would—but enough for him to see the deepening crease between Connor’s brows, his glassy, unreadable eyes flitting over Hank, analyzing him with approximately zero regard for his privacy.

 

The android in question hums a steady, meaningless note before loosing an unnecessary sigh through his nose. His tone is blatantly disapproving, almost patronizing, as he says, “Yes, Hank.” A lukewarm hand curls beneath Hank’s arm, another looping around his shoulders. “Let’s get you up, then. Let’s get you up.”

 

Hank swings his head to get a better look at Connor, who works to ease his leaden weight up without complaint. His LED indicator flickers in quick lemon-colored cycles, occasionally blinking a warning red before fading back through orange and repeating the cycle.

 

“Quit fucking scannin’ me,” he snaps, dumbly. Because he’s a stupid motherfucker, he tries to wrench away from Connor—Hank doesn’t need a fucking babysitter, thank you very much. He’s a grown goddamn man who can play house all on his own—and he _can’t_ stand to look at this selfish piece of shit, or think about him, or think about looking at him. That brilliant decision sends him sprawling, narrowly avoiding a cracked skull on the corner of the coffee table.

 

“ _Hank_!” Connor exclaims, reaching for him, like it’s the only fucking word he knows, and this time there’s something else in his voice. Frustration, of course, because he’s just gotta raise his volume enough to agitate Hank’s pounding head and drive a fucking ice pick, however briefly, through one ear and out the other side. Concern, like Hank’s so fucking incompetent that he needs all of this coddling bullshit.

 

(He is, and he does. He should not go down this road.)

 

“Please let me help. You’re going to hurt yourself this way—see, I can carry you to the bathroom and we can get you sober. We can get you sober.”

 

Hank slaps his grasping hands away, hauling himself out of reach on his hands and knees. Humiliating shit, but necessary. Not as bad as accepting the lecture bullshit like a kid. “Fuck off,” he snarls. “M’fine, just took a nap. Go away, stupid prick.”

 

(He should not go down this goddamn road.)

 

“Because you are so drunk,” Connor replies, sourly, “So very, very drunk—I’m going to refrain from taking offense.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Hank challenges, surging to his feet in a fleeting window of coordination. Connor barely stumbles, hopping back with feline agility to dodge his clumsy swat. “Why? Would it make you fuckin’ mad if you thought I meant it?” Connor doesn’t reply, and that just makes Hank angrier, though he doesn’t quite know why. All he knows is that he’s _mad_ , and it’s garotting him with a white-hot chain of lust and self-loathing and frustration. “Yeah, fuck you too,” he hisses, using the coffee table as a crutch while he stands, doggedly avoiding each and every one of the android’s attempts at contact.

 

(He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to control himself if they get too close.)

 

He staggers to his bedroom, seething all the way. Fucking android. Kid’s stare burns into the back of his head, a white-hot horseshoe branding through his tangled hair. Fucking Connor. _Fucking_ Connor. Hank slams the door violently behind him, fumbles with the knob to press in the lock. It’s an easy fucking thing, cheap. Could probably pick it with a paperclip, or a goddamn toothpick, if that’s the only tool around.

 

Connor won’t force it unless he thinks he’s gonna die and Hank knows this, preys on the android’s budding sense of shame—his modesty, his guilt: all things Hank doesn’t have. Connor doesn’t want to upset Hank, like a fucking puppy, so eager to please.

 

Guess who’s kicking him.

 

“Hank,” Connor breathes through the door, and his voice is suddenly very small. It splinters, pitiful—worried, punctuated by a soft buzz of static that only rears its head when he’s well and truly fucking distressed. Hank can hear a soft rustle and a thump as the android slides down against the doorframe, sitting on the floor just outside—waiting for him. “Hank, please don’t do this. We were making progress, Hank.”

 

Shit—the way that Connor says his name, whines it out all breathy and rough with emotion, sends a tingling current running right down between Hank’s legs. “Fuck off,” he snaps, wrenching his thoughts away from the feeling in lieu of focusing on his anger, frustration. “I don’t owe you jack shit!”

 

There is a long, pregnant pause between them, weighing the air with something like dread. Lust coils hot in Hank’s belly despite the circumstance, and it mingles with his groundless fury to make something sick and satisfying in equal measure, a pounding guilty pleasure that runs straight down to his dick.

 

“I know,” replies Connor at length, and Hank freezes. All of the blood drains from his extremities, crushing his desire beneath a merciless heel as the android continues. “But are you going to stay in there forever?” His voice is carefully neutral, vacant through the wood of the door, and cutting despite its muffled quality. It sends a shiver of thrill down Hank’s spine—immediately followed by a crashing wave of indignant rage. This is Connor’s fucking Negotiator Voice, and he’s using it on Hank like he’s a fucking unstable criminal—a nutcase.

 

(That might be better than this, being totally sane and sober enough to know that he’s fucking it up.)

 

Condescending motherfucker. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” Hank replies, confrontational despite the door between them. He hates this, hates Connor. (Hates himself.) He settles for just glaring at the doorknob. “I don’t need a cunt like you playing motherfuckin’ nanny anymore. Go lick some fucking evidence.”

 

(Hank is trying to distance himself from the vulnerability that comes with attraction. It’s natural to want to lash out when he feels threatened, but it’s not a good plan. It is, in fact, a really shitty way of maintaining relationships. He should stop.)

 

Connor sighs—it’s a hitchy, shuddering sound, like he’s trying to keep control of himself. Good. “We’re off-duty until the FBI is finished,” he reminds, soft like he’s soothing a wild animal. “Please open the door so we can talk about this like adults."

 

Hank snorts despite himself. Who does this idiot think he’s talking to? Like Hank’s some kind of goddamn charity case in need of—what? A social worker? A shrink? Like he’s such a decrepit piece of shit that he can’t even take care of himself? Easy for some flawless wonderboy to say, waltzing in and imposing his ridiculous standards on everybody in his life, then shitting on ‘em when they fall inevitably short.

 

(When _Hank_ falls short. He knows that he does, all the time, and it makes him—resentful? Jealous? It makes him feel bad, deep and virulent and cloying. That doesn’t make this okay, but the ground is sliding out from beneath him. He really should stop.)

 

Yeah, well two can play at this game. “You’re one to talk,” he snarls, hands fisted into the bedsheet. “Y’don’t know a damn thing about being a real fucking adult person. You’re what, like a year old? Come back when you can fucking vote, or at least sit in a loud goddamn room without losing your fuckin’ shit.”

 

(He _needs_ to stop. His fingers rake through these muddy words, trying to pull them back, to yank himself out from the mire, but Hank has dug his grave already, and now it’s just a matter of rotting there. He’s slipping. Drunk or not, the line is coming up on him, and he’s not going to be able to take this shit back. He needs to stop. He _must_ stop. He can’t.)

 

“I _am_ an adult,” Connor says, voice wavering between eerily calm and on the verge of breakdown. “I am an adult of my species. I am able to cope, with some assistance; you know this. You know—” He takes pause, and Hank can hear the _ping_ of a coin passing between his hands. Obnoxious goddamn habit. “Please. I don’t know what’s happened to get you here, and I want to apologize for my inattention, but I do know now that you’re hurting—please. Let me help you.”

 

(That’s the opening. Hank can say yes, stop it right here. It can stop. He needs to stop right here before he fucks it up any worse—)

 

“‘Adult of my species,’” He spits, mocking, even though he shouldn’t. “Sure thing, fella.” It’s ridiculous, really—it makes no fucking sense. Airheaded twink of a savant, useless motherfucker. Worse than a child, more like an ill-trained bomb dog, pissing all over his floor. “Go back to special ed. I don’t need your fuckin’ help.” Shit. “Fuck off and play plastic housewife like you’re a real goddamn boy, see if I care.”

 

(He can’t stop. He wants to.)

 

“Good night, Lieutenant Anderson.”

 

There is some rustling, muted footsteps as Connor stands and walks away. Sumo whines, sensing the tension, and the android murmurs something to the animal that Hank can’t make out. The front door slams, and then the house is quiet.

 

(He didn’t stop, but he should’ve. But he didn’t.)

 

Hank does not move from his spot curled up against the foot of his bed, drunk and sick and miserable. He falls asleep with his head cradled in sweaty, shaking hands.

 

(He deserves this.)

**Author's Note:**

> david cage, as always, is a menace to society and he can go pound sand


End file.
